It was with a grim sense of anthropological duty that THE SCRAPBOOK hied itself over to a party at the Playboy Mansion, held the Saturday night before the convention. The party was tossed for newsfolk -- including roughhewn, shoe-leather types like Bryant Gumbel, who said he knows who will win on Survivor but refused to tell us. He was not the only tease in attendance, however. Playboy bunnies, their cottontails aquiver, gladly posed for Polaroids with all comers, many of whom returned for follow-ups three or four times. Plied by mansion staff with drinks and beef satays, many of our giddy colleagues went on a voyeuristic safari through Hugh Hefner's infamous Grotto, the legendary love cave where steam rises from the tropically humid pools. (One of the barboys said he'd refuse to swim in there unless the water was first bombed with Clorox bleach.)
Midway through the evening our host emerged from his lair (which was off-limits to journos). We thanked "Hef" -- as we have come to think of him -- for the spread, told him we'd had one complimentary cocktail too many, and asked him if he would mind putting us up for the night, as we were in no condition to drive. Hef did not look amused. Pushing on, we asked him the question we knew America wanted to ask, and would have asked, if America had been fortified with as much liquid courage as THE SCRAPBOOK: Even though Loretta Sanchez had been forced to cancel her Playboy fund-raiser, would he be willing, if she were willing, to do an, ah, expose of the congresswoman? Hef pursed his lips, pausing thoughtfully while looking skyward. "I haven't had anything to drink, so I'm not foolish enough to answer that," he said graciously.
Toward the end of the evening, a media rep asked us if we were having a great time. "A great time," we said.
"Good," she said. "Enjoy it. You'll never be back."